Couple of Hours, Max
I was not an average kind of person but I absolutely was of a specific known type: a depressive, nihilistic, pessimistic, angry, neurotic intellectual. I was thoroughly convinced of my own genius to the point of condescension towards those who were not as sharp as I. At the same time, I also harbored a profound self-loathing which sprung from deep insecurity and crippling self-doubt.
I was quick-witted, extremely well-read, with a sardonic sense of humor. I could, when it suited me, be quite charming. Although few people dared stray too close to me emotionally, I was often invited to parties and social gatherings. I stirred the pot in the controlled way a host likes. It makes for interesting conversation.
One on one, I was off putting; tolerable only in limited doses. I could find the negative in everything; suck the joy out of any occasion. I was rain at a picnic. The pin in the balloon.
Not surprisingly, I did not have any long-lasting intimate relationships. My longest affair was four years. The only reason she stuck around as long as she did was because she had nowhere else to go. I knew she was trapped; I knew why she was with me, and I tortured her for it. She was weak; she was desperate; I resented her need and detested her for it.
Eventually, even the notion of being penniless out on the street was preferable to living with me.
In a strange way, I missed her for a while. She had been, for all her flaws, human company. I craved it while simultaneously being repelled by it, and by my own need for it.
As I got older, the vague paranoia that had plagued me since childhood began to consume me. I imagined conspiracies everywhere — by the government, by my landlord, by my neighbors, by whatever family members still had anything to do with me. I picked fights over imagined slights. If I misplaced or lost something, I accused other of stealing. Eventually even those who had tolerated me and my trunkful of quirks had enough.
My final years were spent alone, mumbling to myself, angry at the world that it did not recognize my genius. I read voraciously and wrote manifestos to newspapers, to authors, to people in the government.
My observations about the world, about humans and the way they are, were not insane. In fact, it was the truth of them that nearly drove me mad.